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A small hall in one of the hidden corners of Rombar the Third’s castle, which this year my father had the honor of hosting the Coming of Age celebration for the heirs of the nobility, was nothing like the places where I had spent my growing up… Or rather, it would be more correct to say, my second growing up. Here it seemed to smell of palace intrigues, shady conversations, the kind of talks for which my father could banish someone from the country, and even of things I’m afraid to even think about. Even the air here felt heavy.
No, of course I’m not complaining, though I think if I said all this out loud, it would sound here like an arrogant insult. Because for a simple guard, or even a young noble, this room would look like pure luxury: stone walls covered with tapestries bearing the coats of arms of old houses, a ceiling held up by heavy oak beams, and torches burning with a steady golden light. In the center stood a massive oak table, as if carved from the trunk of an ancient tree, and around it several high-backed chairs. On the table there were already silver goblets, wine swaying quietly inside them.
I stood by a massive tapestry in the middle of the wall, showing the banner of the House of Lambert—a raven with spread wings against the background of a rising sun. In the torchlight, golden threads shimmered as if the bird was about to come alive and tear itself free from the fabric. I caught myself thinking I’d been staring at that emblem for too long, though all my attention was fixed on the figure sitting at the table.
Elianora.
She sat exactly as all noble girls were taught from infancy: back straight, shoulders slightly pulled back, knees pressed together and shifted to the side, hands folded on the thin fabric of her skirt. Nothing in her pose strayed from flawless palace etiquette. It seemed as though she had been born to be a lady. Her gaze was calm, her breathing even, her chin slightly raised. Everything in that figure seemed so proper and immaculate that I still kept asking myself the question that had long since worn me out: 'Is this even David?'
I knew David too well—after all, we’d been best friends before all this crap. He had never managed to sit still for more than a minute. He fidgeted, drummed his fingers on the desk, kept shifting a pen from one hand to the other. And now, in front of me, was the very embodiment of elegance. If I hadn’t heard that raspy laugh of his just a year ago, I would’ve sworn David had never even existed.
— You look like you’re about to start praying to the raven, — she said quietly, not turning around, but one of her fingers twitched slightly. And yet, her voice was melodic, perfectly measured, and something about her intonation pricked me inside. I just drifted off. Got lost in thought. But it was always like that, and I should’ve gotten used to it by now, because in the local tongue she always sounded this way—for everyone. Only when we switched to English did she become “one of the guys” again, the one I remembered. A dry, slightly mocking tone breaking through the foreign shell. Then before me stood not the flawless portrait of an aristocrat, but my friend. Real, alive, with that same tone he once used to throw jabs at me in the locker room after gym class.